


How Far Can The Mighty Fall? (Fan Continuation)

by paraparanom



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Blood and Gore, Character Study, Coughing, Eddsworld - Freeform, Gen, Gore, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, References to Drugs, Regret, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparanom/pseuds/paraparanom
Summary: "Takes place after the finally. Tord is in hiding and is in the lowest part of his life. Things don't seem to look up for our villain any time soon."This fic was orphaned by the original author Hawkeyedown, and I really enjoyed it so I decided to continue it for fun.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How far can the mighty fall?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343039) by [HawkEyeDown (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/HawkEyeDown). 



> Go check out the original fic before reading this one!

Tord had crept out from the alley, sky falling into a dull shade of pink, the navy blue of the night not far behind. Sighing, he held onto his bag tighter. Didn't want to lose the only provisions he had. Venturing outward, Tord made his way back to the boy scout camp.

He really needed to find a new hideout.

-8-8-8-8-8-

Tord woke up a few days later with a fever. Coughing, he rolled off of the cot he had been sleeping on and tried to be productive. His health wasn’t really ever that important to him.

Unfortunately, the splitting dizziness and headache Tord felt when he stood up was definitely something to be more or less concerned about.

Medicine. He needed medicine.

Tord gripped the edge of the bed, teetering towards the floor.

His bag had been put in the corner across from the bed, not bothering to unpack what he had stolen from the convenience store. Tord took a shaky breath and stood up to reach his bag. It had hurt, a lot more than it should've to get to some stupid bag. After each step, his head felt like it would explode, and at this point, Tord's balance was relying solely upon the wall of the cabin.

Still shaky, Tord fumbled with the bag, trying to open it and receive some sort of treatment for himself. Inside, after some thorough searching, he had found a pack of Ibuprofen and popped two in his mouth. He coughed, wheezed, and trekked back to the cot.

Tord lay down, curling in on himself. He clenched his functional eye shut, and tightened up.

It would be better tomorrow. Tord had told himself.

Things were most certainly not better the next day. Arguably, things for Tord had gotten worse. His headache had died to a dull roar, but his chest had tightened, making it hard to focus. On top of that, Tord’s right eye socket was burning. It itched, and stung, he wanted to rip it. Gouge the remainder of his face, claw at the bandages until nothing was left.

It hurt. Holy hell it hurt.

Tord didn't even get up that day, he just lay on the bed, curling continually into himself until he was nothing but a small red shaking lump on the bed.

Night rolled around, and Tord still felt utterly awful. He managed to get up at one point, only to grab some pain meds and shuffle back into bed. Tord hoped he would be able to sleep. Of course, it's extremely difficult to sleep when your body wakes you up every few hours for a new coughing fit.

At one point early near dawn, Tord couldn't handle the feeling of burning coming from under the bandages on his face. So, he ripped them off.

His fingers now had blood on them, smeared on from the bandages. The blood itself was dry, but there was a lot of it. Tord dropped the used bandages on the ground, sighing at the feeling of fresh air hitting the wounds on his face.

It helped.

Or, at least it did for a day or so. Before the itchy, stinging feeling slowly reappeared. Despite Tord's best efforts, his cough didn't get suppressed either. The medication he had wasn't helping, the food wasn't helping, sleep wasn't helping. Tord just wanted it to stop. He needed help. Except, help wasn't an option. Tord was on his own with this one.

He could go back to town. Maybe get some help.

Or get arrested.

The town wasn't the best option then.

Tord was starting to get irritated. He hated that he was in this situation because of his f- no. He wasn't going there.

Tord sighed, taking his left arm and running his hand through his hairline. This was stupid. He was probably just sick or something. He’d feel better eventually, and if he didn't, then he would go back to town.

-8-8-8-8-

The night Tord coughed up blood was the night he decided to go back into town.

In the morning, Tord had slung an abandoned backpack he found, over his back, with his now loaded handgun inside. He wheezed into an extra wad of cloth. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared up he made his way into town, hood up to cover his distinct hair and face.

This was a few hours ago. Now, Tord found himself blearily stumbling along trying to find a place to get some sort of help. He had no qualms about robbing a store, but he had to be logical. No hitting up the same place twice in a matter of what, weeks? A week? How long had it been since the accident? Wanted posters of him still littered every surface near civilization, so obviously not long enough.

Eventually, Tord found another off brand convenience store, and entered through the front door, which set off a little bell near the roof, signaling his entrance. Some acne covered teen near the front didn't even look up, instead muttering out something that sounded like an obligatory greeting. Tord ignored the teen, moving to the marked medical aisle.

He grabbed a few packages of pain medication, some allergy pills, and a ton of cough syrup. After shoving it in his bag, Tord let out a hard, heavy cough and multiple shorter, but more intense wheezes. It was getting harder to breathe every time he went into one of these fits.

What else would he need? Food? An inhaler? New clothes would probably be good. Tord looked down and grimaced at his cut up hoodie. Now stained with odd colored patches of brown and maroon. His pants weren't in much better condition, having similar patterns on them.

Tord sighed, grabbing a random inhaler off the shelf, than re-strapping the backpack onto his back, and pulling out the gun. He walked out of the aisle, attempting to get away from the store unnoticed. Of course, the amount of unpurchased goods in his bags would set off the store's security system, but that's what he had his gun for.

The overbearing alarm of the store started up, which really only brought back the headache Tord had. Just as he was about to make a run for it, Tord's lungs decided to give it out to him, creating a chain reaction of coughs and hacks that sent Tord into a state of ‘just-barely-standing-up’ The cashier up front walked over to him, looking a little tense, shoes squeaking on the cheapo plastic tile. Pubescent voice cracking, the teen barely squeaked out an “uh-” before Tord had taken a break from keeling over to pull his gun out.

The teen, name tag reading 'Charlie’, visibly gulped and tensed, lifting their hands up as a sign of surrender.

Tord smiled, and went to put the gun away, turning around to leave-

“Tom I just need to run in here real quick for some more Cola!”  
“Edd don't leave me here with Matt, holy hell.”

A gun clattered to the ground. Tord's hand clutching his chest. It was hard to breathe- he couldn't breathe- why couldn't he breathe?

“Fine come in with me. But don't make any trouble!”

Tord started coughing. His face flushed, and he wheezed in and out. Through blurry eyes, Tord looked up at the confused and concerned cashier in front of him.

He could hear footsteps getting closer. Tord hyperventilated harder. Glaring at the cashier, he barely got out an empty threat.

“Sneak me out the back or I'll shoot your face off.”

'Charlie’ tensed, and grabbed Tord by the hand, leading him to the back left of the store where an 'exit’ sign barely lit up. Tord was thrust outside and coughed a ‘thank you’ at the teen.

Just as the exit door closed, the bell at the front of the store rang out.

Tord ran five blocks away from the store before collapsing against the front wall of an abandoned building. He shrank down on himself, knees tucked up to his chest.

“Oh! Sorry Edd, I just couldn't leave this behind!”

His chest was moving too fast-

“But I- I thought we were friends!”

Tord could barely register how much he was shaking. He couldn't get any air-

“HAH! NO! What would I need friends for when I have this?! I'm unstoppable!”

Tord started coughing. He couldn't see-

“I. AM. NOT. YOUR. FRIEND!!”

His eye itched. His face itched. Now his face was warm. Why was his face warm? Tord barely registered his cheeks were wet.

Stop. Breathe. Breathe you, idiot.

Tord took in one shaky breath and another. Coughing, Tord managed a gasp of air, clearing his head. His vision sharpened, and now he could see straight. He was still shaking, but not nearly as bad as before.

One of his hands, the left one, had blood on it. Where did that come from? Acknowledging the wetness of his face, Tord lifted the same hand up to dry his face. When his arm came down, more blood smudged the remainder of his hoodie sleeve. Was it his eye? Was it bleeding again?

Gently, Tord touched the empty socket, sure enough, when his fingers pulled away, blood came off.

Had he done this? If so, why was his other cheek wet?

Touching the other cheek, Tord wiped the remainder of the liquid off. It was clear on his palm. Sweat? No. It smelt like salt. Tears then? That would make sense.

Tord placed his arms on top of his knee caps. Absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on his pants.

He hadn't cried in a long time. He was Red Leader for fuck's sake. A leader doesn't cry. His title was supposed to mean he devoid of emotion. He wasn't supposed to bat an eye at killing someone, a rock hard, emotionless shadow. Someone to be feared. It was a miracle if he showed mercy, typically he was malicious, and that was all. Crying showed weakness. Weakness wasn't an option. It was stupid something as little as this sent all his emotions tumbling out like an avalanche.

Red Leader doesn't cry.

But at the time, Tord didn't feel like a leader. He felt like Tord.

So, he let himself cry for the second time, in a very, very long while.

Small sobs sent shudders through Tord’s crumpled form, little splashes hit the ground as the tears rolled off his cheeks. Cheeks, plural. Funny, he didn't even think he could cry with his other eye being the way it was. Tord weakly gave a small, broken, smile to himself about the entirety of the situation.

The smile broke into a fit of raspy laughter. Tord covered his mouth with one hand, the other running itself through his hair. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks, more so than before, but that didn't stop him from brokenly shifting somewhere between a mental breakdown and another panic attack.

Calming down, Tord coughed and fetched the backpack next to him for some kind of medicine. He found an ironically, green colored inhaler. The color made his chest ache. Putting it up to his mouth, Tord took a long puff, the medicine soothing his sore throat, and ever more painful chest. Shoving the inhaler into his front hoodie pocket, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin and took one. Hopefully, that would help as well.

Tord took a heavy breath in and out, then brushed himself off, and stood up. Backpack strapped to his left shoulder, he looked around. Hopefully, no one was near to see his little 'outburst’.

Turning around, Tord realized, with a drop in his stomach that he had no idea where he was. Normally this would be bad, but it was so much worse when you incorporate the fact that he was a wanted man, with absolutely no intention of asking for directions. Then, of course, Tord noticed the wanted poster tacked to the wall he had previously been leaning on.

The sight of a wanted poster with him on it wouldn't be something to fret over. Tord however, wasn't dressed as Red Leader in this poster. The photo had been sketched out, much like a witness account, and he was wearing his red hoodie, bright red makeshift bandage tied over an eye socket that had bled through the material. His hair was colored a few shades darker than it actually was, and the usual two horned style was skewed about in a messy fashion, but apart from that, it was very obviously him.

Well, now he was wanted twice over. Check that off the bucket list.

Tord looked away from the poster, at the street which was pretty much devoid of all life. An empty, beaten down, phone booth was resting across the street. Maybe he could call Base, get Paul and Patryk to pick him up, receive some help. Yeah, that would make sense.

Tord shuffled over the road and into the booth, pressing 'emergency call’ and dialing the Red Army Base number. It was a special number, used for dealing and conversing with head people in the army. Usually, it directed the caller to a Base desk, where one of his soldiers would answer, and decide on whether or not the caller was worth Red Leader's time. It was a high-end position and one that only elite members of the Red Army got into.

The phone dialed and rang barely once before someone answered.

“Name. Organization. Business.”

Tord breathed out a sigh of relief. “Red Leader. Red Army. Help.”

The person on the other end laughed.

“You're sick. Our leader has been absent from duty for a month now. Threats we can handle, but mocking the title of Red Leader?”  
“What do you mean, sick?! Don't you recognize your own Leaders voice?” Tord strained, desperately gripping the phone.  
“Hah. Sir doesn't sound like you. Nice try.” The other voice sneered.  
“Please- at least direct me to P-”

The phone clicked. The call was over.

“Nonono! You idiot!” Tord slammed the phone back into the holder, redialing the number and picking up the phone. This time, he was immediately sent to voicemail.

“Paul! Patryck! Please answer, please i-it’s Red Leader!” Tord paused his rant to hack up a lung, and take another puff of his inhaler. “It's me! It’s Tord-” The line went dead.

Tord smashed the phone into the machine with his good arm. The plastic coating cracked apart on impact, the phone itself denting the metal in the machine. Electricity shot up at his hand.

Bad idea.

Tord’s left hand was shocked, which didn't hurt too badly, but that combined with the sheer impact of the blow had hurt like hell and made his knuckles bleed.

Tord pulled back reflexively, cradling his arm against his chest. He leaned back against the wall of the booth opposite to the broken phone. Sinking to the floor, he looked up at the roof. It was a faded, dull white. Too dirty to actually be considered white anymore. Cracks and miscellaneous stains were littered throughout it. Tord closed his eye.

“I deserve this. Don't I?”

No one answered.

-8-8-8-

Apparently, he had fallen asleep, because Tord's eye had opened to find early morning sun spilling through the telephone booth. He stretched, amazed that no one had called the cops on him. Tord coughed into his hand and pulled out the inhaler again. Standing up, he looked around, to see if the street was still empty. (It was.) He then reapplied a layer of bandages to his right eye.

Tord figured it would be best to actually find the boy scout camp today, meaning he probably needed to retrace his steps from yesterday. But that implied he was going back to the shop.

No. He wouldn't go in the shop. Tord would just find it, and then use it to figure out where the camp was.

He picked a random direction to walk in, and Tord made his way down the street. He kept close to the buildings, in case anyone, specifically policemen- or old friends -saw him. Tord's hands were in his hoodie pocket, gripping onto the inhaler sitting inside like a lifeline. The road was pretty much empty, and it led into another street, this one a bit busier. Tord watched his feet, refusing to make eye contact with anyone or anything. He didn't have his gun, it was dropped in the convenience store. If anyone tried anything, Tord wouldn't have a way to get out.

That was fine. He was fine. Tord just needed to be extra careful.

After rounding another corner, Tord found himself on the same block as the store he dropped his gun in. Some caution tape was plastered onto the door, but not much was different. He could recognize the area, which meant now would be a good time to turn around and find the camp. He couldn’t stay in the camp forever- Tord knew that. But for now, it was his only place to go. Shuffling closer to the wall he was against, he figured out which way to go to get back. Turning, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before.

It was a car across the street. Faded red exterior paint covered the outside, and the driver was reading a newspaper, covering most of his face. Normally, Tord wouldn’t bat an eye at that, but when a familiar looking face peered over the top, he had to stifle a laugh.

Tord smiled, casually walking over. He didn’t bother trying to hide, instead leaning on the backseat door, tapping the glass a few times. The driver jumped at the noise and angrily rolled down the window. Tord looked down at the man, and let out a tired laugh.

“About damn time you showed up, Paul.”  
“Tord! I mean- Red Leader, Sir! You’re okay?!”

Tord smiled and opened the backseat door, practically collapsing on the seat. He coughed heavily a few times, as Paul, and the man sitting next to him in the shotgun- Patryck, worriedly looked back at him. Tord fished out his stolen inhaler and took a puff.

“Sir, are you okay? What happened to your eye, and your voice?” Patryck asked, concern lacing his voice.  
“Ah. Well, I gouged the eye out myself,” The other two men winced. “a cough spawned from who knows where and I wasn’t aware my voice sounded any different. Now, if you please, get our asses back to base, and fire whoever our receptionist is.”

The car started up, and the three drove off.

Reaching Base, Paul pulled up to the clearance area, granting them access into the building. Tord was helped out of the car and ushered into the Red Army Medical Wing. There, a doctor looked him over, removing his self-applied bandages, and checking out the extent of his injuries.

Sighing, the doctor rubbed her temples and looked at Tord directly.

“Your burn injuries themselves weren’t initially too bad. Mostly second degree. Your eye, however, was unprofessionally dug out in an unsterile environment, exposing it to all sorts of nasty stuff.” She paused, checking to see that Tord was following.  
“Including mold. Now, I don’t know where you were hiding, but apparently, it had a very high mold spore rate. Spores you inhaled, and spores that built up and festered under your eye. Mold grows in warm, moist, environments, and the warm, moist, built up blood coming out of your open wound provided the perfect opportunity for it. So, to put it simply, you have mold growing inside your eye, which is causing your lung issues, and giving you asthma-like symptoms. It’s also the reason you’re losing your voice.”

Tord held his hand in his face, taking a heavy breath in and out.

“Okay, what do you recommend I do?”  
“My team can put you under and clean the wound, apart from that, there’s not much else. I can give you some pills to clear out the mold as well.”  
“Fine. Do it.”

Tord began to walk out, before stopping by the doorway. “Actually, I want you to take the arm off as well.”

The doctor made a small noise of concern. “Are you sure? The arm would heal eventually, it would just take a little longer since-”  
“I am Red Leader, and I need to function properly in order to run this army. Plans will go as they were originally laid out. We cannot hope to get anything accomplished if I am under weather, so please remove the arm, and tell me when the soonest you can do the performance is.”

Tord was huffing, the argument draining him of energy.

“We can operate as soon as tomorrow.”

-8-8-8-8-8-

When Tord woke up from surgery, his right arm was gone, cut off slightly below the shoulder, and his right eye socket was covered by a medical eye patch.

He smiled, his right side wasn’t hurting as intensely, brought down to a dull ache. Tord lay back down on the medical cot, falling back asleep.

The second time he woke up, Tord made his way back to his office, changed into his own clothes, and much to the dismay of Paul and Patryck began working. This work was not, however, for the Army. Tord grinned at the prototype he sketched out. It would work perfectly as a replacement arm.

-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Tord stood in front of the door to the shared house. Tord’s hand shook, and he pulled his right arm out of his hoodie pocket, gingerly knocking a few times. The door clicked, signaling to him that someone was opening the door. Creaking open, the front door revealed an empty room, with no lights on. Tord stepped hesitantly inside, and the door closed behind him.

“Hello? Edward? Thomas? Matthew? I’m home.”

No one answered, instead, a light turned on in front of him. The light provided Tord with a perfect view of a body lying in front of him. It was Jon.

Jon’s shirt was ripped and his eyes were pale and dull. Blood splattered his shirt and parts of his face. A piece of red shrapnel stuck out of his chest, which looked to be the cause of death.

Tord inhaled sharply, backing away from the dead man. A pair of hands launched out, covering his mouth. The arms were covered by green hoodie sleeves. Another pair, covered by purple sleeves, launched out as well, this time grabbing his waist and pulling him back. Tord yelled, but it was muffled, as he was thrown to the ground. Tord looked up at a faint blue light glowing ahead of him.

The light glowed brighter, and Tord used his left arm to shield his eyes from the light. A figure stepped forward, blocking out the glow. Tord’s eyes readjusted to the light, and the figure came into proper view. It was Tom.

Tord relaxed a bit.

“Tom! What’s going on?! Why is Jon dead? Where are-”

Squench.

Tord’s eyes widened, looking straight at Tom. He could barely register what had happened, Tom’s actions too swift to actually be picked up on, merely a quick movement of the arm, and a flash of blue. Looking down, Tord could see a pale blue harpoon directly implanted in his chest. Dark maroon blood dripped down the barb, collecting in a puddle on the floor.

Tears welled up in Tord’s eyes as Tom grabbed the handle of the harpoon, and plunged it further into his chest, twisting, while simultaneously placing his foot on the other man's stomach, pushing down. Tord arms grasped out, desperately trying to grab onto the harpoon and pull it out. He couldn’t breathe- get it out. Tord clawed at Tom’s hands, and after much resistance, Tom pulled away from the harpoon, removing it from his chest. Tord gasped, trying and failing to bring in air.

The pain returned, however, when the hands from earlier came back. Tom smiled at Tord as the hands reached out and clawed at his right side, pulled and peeled flesh right off, blood soaking their fingertips and staining the ground. The right side of Tord’s hoodie had been shredded along with his skin. The hands separated, one pair pulling on his arm, the other digging into his face. With a sickening rip, his right arm had been completely pulled off, blood flowing out of the remaining stump like a river. His eye had been gouged out as well, nothing left but a dark, bloody hole.

The hands retreated back into the surrounding darkness, and Tom stepped a bit forward, revealing two more figures behind him. Edd and Matt.

Tord flinched as the opposing trio smiled. Words seemed to tumble out of his mouth after that, Tord having no control over what he was going to say. The question that leaked out made him suffer even more.

“I thought we were friends?”

The trio laughed at him, and Tom brought out his harpoon again, plunging it into his chest again.

Tord launched upright with a start. His hand went to his chest, surprised to find it was unharmed. His left arm then went to his right side, where his arm was in fact now replaced by a red robotic one. Tord's eye was covered by a medical eye patch. His breathing was heavy and uneven, and his chest was moving fast and raggedly, constricting against him. Tord was drenched in sweat, and his vision was blurry. He couldn’t breathe- oh god he couldn’t breathe. No oxygen was entering his mouth no matter how hard he gasped. His left hand was shaking, and going to grab something to stabilize himself. The act did quite the opposite, instead, causing him to reel over and fall off of the chair he was sitting on. Papers littering the desk skewed off, falling to the ground, and Tord banged his head on the floor. He still couldn’t breathe.

Tord reached for his inhaler, not able to find it in the dark. He curled in on himself, choking down small sobs, his face wet from a combination of tears and sweat. The blind panic that seemingly had taken him over before, was now subsiding. Tord could manage small, quick breaths, eventually managing to calm down and take in larger puffs of oxygen. Sitting up, Tord held his forehead. Spotting his inhaler on the desk, he grabbed it and the pills he had been given for his respiratory and mold issues. He also grabbed his *new* cell phone, gently stuffing it into his hoodie pocket.

Sighing, Tord walked out of his office, and exited Base, hoping a walk might help him clear his head a bit. Finding his way back to civilization in the darkness, he ended up on a familiar-ish looking road. The street was empty, and the air was cold and dry. After lying against the wall of an alley for an hour or so, Tord had recovered and decided to make his way back. He walked out of the alley and tried to cross the empty street. Making it about half-way across, Tord felt a shortness of breath, and let out a hardy, heavy cough. Usually, each fit lasted half a minute or so, but this one was longer. Hacking even more intensely, Tord went to grab his inhaler, still glued to his spot in the middle of the street.

The inhaler didn’t even make it to his lips when a bright pair of headlights rounded the street corner and came straight at him. Relying solely on instinct, Tord's robotic arm shot out in front of him, slamming into the front of the car's hood. Metal crunched beneath his artificial fingers, and the car continued to push forward, the momentum causing Tord's feet to slide slowly backward. Skidding to a stop, Tord dropped his arm, realizing the result of his actions. The front airbags had gone off, and the front windshield had been completely shattered. Blood was spattered out on the hood of the car, not enough for Tord to be worried about possible casualties, but the sight wasn't exactly pleasant.

A small cough reminded Tord to take a dose of inhaler medication. As the medicine was being delivered, he noticed some blue fabric caught in between the airbags. His breath hitched, it wasn't- couldn't be T-

Tord walked around to the driver's seat of the totaled vehicle and ripped the door off of its hinges. Before he knew it, Tord wasn't able to breathe. He white-knuckled the roof of the car, choking down the incoming panic attack. Stop it.

Tord pulled out his phone, dialing Patryck’s number. He didn't care if it was the middle of the night- he needed immediate medical assistance god damnit.

In the car, two male bodies laid out on the dashboard, blood dripping down the driver’s forehead, the passenger, who was doused in green, had an arm slammed forward, tucked at an impossibly painful angle. Upon further inspection, a third body, dressed in purple was slammed face first into the center console and had glass sticking out of his torso. The first body, wearing blue, coughed out blood, shoulders shaking a bit. His eyes didn't open, instead, a small groan of the word 'asshole’ was muttered before he fell back onto the dash.

-8-8-8-8-8-

Tord was pacing outside of the Med Bay, hands held tightly behind his back. The nurse had kindly told him that no major injuries had fallen upon any of the three. Apart from a slight stab wound in Matt’s stomach, Edd's broken arm, and Tom's concussion. Part of Tord had hoped they’d gotten a bit more hurt, maybe a few more scars- something closer to permanent. After all, they had hurt him. Correct? Didn't they deserve to suffer like he had? They were the ones who had gotten him into this position in the first place. Their fault he was so severely scarred, their fault he had lost his arm, his eye, their fault he was sick, their fault he couldn't control his own emotions, their fault, their fault, their fault, he should have left them there to d-

“Edd's awake.”

Tord stopped pacing. The nurse leaned outside of the patient's door, biting her lip.

“Matt’s stirring as well. They're going to ask questions you know.”

Tord rubbed his temples with his non-robotic arm. “Yes, I'm aware. Look, just-” Tord sighed. “just wait until all three are awake, and then I'll deal with any questions they might have.”  
“You're not worried about-”  
“Dismissed, nurse.”  
“Sir.”

-8-8-8-8-

Despite their protests, neither Edd or Matt received answers to their questions of where they were, and how they got there.

A few hours later, Tom had woken up too.

The nurse received another bombard of questions.

“Look-” she had snapped. “my Boss has asked me not to answer any questions, but I'll tell you this. You three were in a car accident, and you hit my Boss, who graciously decided to call for help, and brought you here, unhealthily choking down several panic attacks along the way out of sheer fear for his and your lives. Now please, he'll be here any second, and then you can ask to your heart's content about what happened.”

The three sat in silence for a moment, before Edd had spoken up.

“You said we hit your Boss, is he okay?”

The nurse scoffed. “Hah, is the Boss okay? You're funny. We should keep you.”

The door creaked open a tad, and the nurse straightened up, looking directly at a figure outside of the room, and saluted.

“Dismissed.”

She exited past the door, and Tord stepped inside.

Tord coughed once and smiled at the other three. A small wave of panic washed over him briefly, but he ignored it and took a step closer to the others. Matt flinched at the movement.

“Hello, I can tell you have-” His words were cut off by the feeling of a fist slamming itself into his left cheek.

Tom, had somehow thrust himself out of the medical cot and on top of Tord, throwing a good left hook at him.

“Fuck. Off.”

The movement sent a painful rush of air from his lungs, and Tord was tackled to the ground. He could feel a panic attack coming on.

Matt gasped, ducking under the covers, and Edd yelled at the two on the floor, reaching out at with his arm that was not broken, tears welling up. Despite the situation, Tord wheezed out a raspy laugh.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way to say thank you.”

Tom let go, scowling harder. “Thank- tHANK YOU?! You shot down our house and tried to kill us you bastard! You did kill Jon! Why on Earth would we thank you?!”  
“Well somebody had to drag your sorry asses out of that car crash. Believe it or not, I did get you guys in here for immediate medical treatment.”

Tord coughed a few times, pushing Tom off with his robotic arm.

“Wait, I didn't know Todd was a doctor?!” Matt gasped, throwing his hands on his cheeks. Tord chuckled, standing up and helping Tom to his feet.

“Welcome to the Red Army Base. Any questions?”

 


End file.
